


Dead Man's Blood

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode tag s04e07 Weaponized, Episode: s04e07 Weaponized, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Nogitsune Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shock, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I’m covered in a dead man’s blood.</i><br/>When that thought finally worms its way out of the box Stiles shoved it into, it becomes his sole focus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man's Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to look at Stiles dealing with, at least in a small way, what happened to him in "Weaponized."

**Title:** Dead Man's Blood  
 **Fandom:** Teen Wolf  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Characters:** Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Rafael McCall, Sheriff Stilinski, Kira Yukimura  
 **Word count:** 3,335  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf or any related properties.  
 **Warnings:** Episode tag for "Weaponized."  
 **Summary:** _I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._ When that thought finally worms its way out of the box Stiles shoved it into, it becomes his sole focus, pushing all thoughts of _Malia is going to go to Peter now_ and _It’s going to be like this as long as the dead pool is active_ and _they almost died because I wasn’t fast enough_ aside.

 

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

When that thought finally worms its way out of the box Stiles shoved it into, it becomes his sole focus, pushing all thoughts of _Malia is going to go to Peter now_ and _It’s going to be like this as long as the dead pool is active_ and _they almost died because I wasn’t fast enough_ aside.

He shivers hard and decides to blame it on the slight chill in the Hale vault.

“They’re probably still looking for us,” Kira says, still sounding shaken. Stiles supposes a near-death experience will do that to a person.

_“I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to kill you.”_

Stiles shivers again, and pushes himself up from the ground, tucking his crumpled copy of the dead pool with the damning words “Malia Hale” written on it into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Yeah,” he says.

He strides past Scott and Kira, even though he just wants to gather them both up, squish them into a hug with Malia and his dad, and Mrs. McCall and even Derek and Liam, and keep them safe. He just wants to keep them all safe.

 _But you didn’t. You couldn’t do_ anything.

They climb the stairs out of the basement in silence, even though he catches Scott and Kira sharing a loaded glance when he stops and looks back at them from the landing.

“It worked, right?” Stiles finds himself asking before he pushes open the door back onto the main floor of Beacon Hills High School. “The mushrooms? You’re okay?”

Scott steps up behind him, pulling away from Kira so he can grip Stiles’ shoulder with his left hand.

“It worked. We’re fine.”

 _“But what if it hadn’t?”_ Stiles wants to shout. _“What if you’d all died in there? It would have been my fault that you didn’t make it. And god, I would have had to make Derek open the vault just to get to your bodies. He doesn’t deserve to see any more death. None of us needs to see any more death.”_

“Yeah,” Stiles chokes out, and shoves open the heavy metal fire door.

They’re greeted by clumps of students, law enforcement, medical professionals and teachers milling about, some breaking down equipment and others just standing around chatting. Mr. Yukimura is one of them, standing in the frame of his classroom’s doorway and directing students down the hallway.

“Dad!” Kira yells, hugging Scott briefly before pulling away from him to sprint into her father’s arms. The man pulls his daughter close to him, stroking her hair and whispering to her. When he notices Stiles and Scott looking, he mouths “Thank you” at them.

Stiles shivers again, racking his arms up and down the sleeves of his teal and gray hoodie. Without really thinking about it, he presses himself up against Scott’s side, trying to leach away some of the warmth from his best friend.

“I…uh…” he starts, not really sure what he wants to say.

Scott, bless him, apparently understands. Stiles talks all the time, but there’s only a select few who can understand him when he isn’t saying a thing.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

Before they can say anything further than that, someone calls out “Scott!”

They both turn to look as Rafael McCall turns away from an official-looking woman in a black tailored suit holding a plastic evidence bag with a gun in it and sprinting toward them.

 _There’ll be an investigation,_ Stiles thinks. _He discharged his weapon in the line of duty. There’ll be an investigation. Protocol._

Stiles has been around protocol and police procedure his entire life. It’s comforting in its own way, lets him try to remember what an official FBI investigation might involve instead of thinking about why that gun was fired, why it…

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“Scott! Are you okay? Your mom called about the mushrooms and…” he trails off and Stiles watches his raised hands twitch in front of him, like he wants to check that Scott is okay, but isn’t sure it’s allowed.

Scott glances over at Stiles before he turns to his dad.

“I’m okay. I got sick like the others, but those mushrooms helped. We’re all okay. We should call mom and tell her that everything turned out alright.”

Rafael hesitates for a moment, but then he pulls Scott into a hug, dragging Stiles in as well since he’s still plastered to Scott’s side. The warmth is a comfort, even if Rafael will never be his favorite person. But people can change, and he’s certainly seen enough evidence of that, both good (Derek, Erica, Aiden and Ethan) and bad (Ms. Blake sacrificing people as the Darach, Jackson transforming into the Kanima and himself murdering people as the Nogitsune and reveling in the chaos).

He can give Rafael a chance after what he’s done and…

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“Stiles? Stiles?”

“What?” he asks. He looks up to find both McCalls looking at him with confusion and concern. Scott’s nostrils start flaring, and Stiles hastens to add “I’m fine, too. The fever went away.”

“Okay,” Rafael says, although he doesn’t look convinced. He’s been looking like that more and more lately, and Stiles wonders if they’ll have to bring him in on the insanity that is their lives. “You’re…uh…” He glances back at female officer, who is writing something on the bag containing his service weapon. Then he looks back at Stiles. “You’re going to have to give a statement, Stiles. About what happened in the locker room.”

Stiles sees Scott’s eyes widen out of the corner of his eye, sees him start to really examine Stiles and the state of him.

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“You feel up for that, kiddo?”

Stiles shakes his head, feeling bile rise in the back of his throat. He swallows heavily, and Rafael gives him a look of pity. He wants to thank him, really, but he can’t find the words.

“You want me to find your dad?”

Stiles nods this time, taking a step back from the McCalls so he can rest his back against a bank of lockers.

“I think he’s working with some of the medical team. You two stay right here.” Rafael pulls Scott into a quick, one-armed hug before releasing him again. “I’ll call your mom and let her know you’re safe.”

Scott nods, and then he’s pressed up against Stiles’ side again, supporting him. Stile manages a weak smile, but he feels some of the drying blood flake off his face with the gesture, and he abruptly feels the bile he’s been swallowing down rise up his throat like a tidal wave. There’s a large plastic garbage bin at the end of the locker bank, and he rushes over to it. He grips the edges of the bin, listening to the plastic liner crinkle under his palms as he breathes deeply and tries to keep himself from vomiting.

“Hey, Stiles, breathe,” Scott says from his side, his palm rubbing warm circles into Stiles’ back through the hoodie. “Just breathe. Come on. Deep breaths. One, two…”

_“One…two…”_

He throws up, his throat and tongue burning as he brings up coffee and the Cheerios he had for breakfast before he left for the PSAT.

Scott keeps crooning at him, meaningless nonsense that nonetheless makes him feel a little bit better because it’s coming from _Scott._ His best friend, his brother, who is still alive. Who didn’t die because of his failures, who didn’t die despite the fact Stiles couldn’t figure out what was happening quickly enough.

He swipes a hand across his forehead, and that only reminds him that minutes (has it been that long?) ago, there was the cool barrel of a suppressor pressed against the thin flesh there.

Stiles hadn’t been scared, not for himself. But Scott and Malia and Kira had needed his help, and if he couldn’t do that, he at least wouldn’t betray them. He hadn’t been scared then, but he’s scared now, thinking of what his death would have done to his dad, to Scott, to his pack. He’s scared thinking of how close he came to death _again_ , of how many close calls there’ve been since sophomore year. He’s always scared the Nogitsune is still in control, or that it’s still lying in wait at the back of his mind to take him under its power and use him to murder his friends again.

 _“We’re going to destroy all of them, Stiles.”_ At hearing that oily voice in his memory, Stiles throws up again, tears streaming from his eyes as he hiccups and starts sobbing.

Scott sounds a bit more frantic now, murmuring his name in between a steady stream of pleading for him to calm down.

And then Stiles hears a familiar voice say, “Easy, Son. Ssssshhh, it’s alright. I’m here. You’re okay.” Stiles spits a few times into the garbage can, then stands, letting himself be dragged into his father’s strong embrace.

“Dad,” he whimpers out.

“You’re safe,” his dad says, petting at his hair as he presses Stiles’ face into the right side of his uniform jacket so he’s not against his badge or his radio. Stiles hiccups loudly, and he’s vaguely aware of his dad moving him further down the hall, away from the crowd of people. He’ll be grateful later, but right now he can hardly process anything.

“List,” Stiles chokes out. “Assassin.”

His dad makes a soft, nonsensical noise, but Stiles has his dad’s instincts, and he can’t let this go.

_“One…two…”_

“Teacher. PSAT fingerprints. The ink. Sick.” Stiles says, and he hears Scott suck in a breath.

“Okay, Stiles. I’ll get some officers on it.” There’s a long, drawn-out pause. “McCall told me what happened. With the teacher.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to suck in a breath, one that goes down into his lungs like jagged glass.

“Stiles?” Scott asks, and there’s just the lightest thread of his alpha power bleeding into his voice, ordering his pack member to give him what he needs to know. But the rest of his tone is still the same old, squishy, compassionate, marshmallow fluff that’s been there since the first day Stiles Stilinski met Scott McCall at the park’s sandbox.

“Please,” he begs. “I can’t…”

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“S’okay,” his dad croons. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it yet.”

_Yet. Because you have to give a statement later. Because FBI Special Agent Rafael McCall shot someone in the line of duty. To protect a civilian being threatened with deadly force._

_Scott’s dick of father killed someone to protect you._

He clutches hard at his dad’s uniform, flailing out his other hand until it latches onto Scott’s shirt. He sobs once, then again, then can’t stop. He smears tears and snot and blood all over his dad’s jacket, listens to Scott and his dad’s voices, but not their words.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he manages to let go of them both, wiping his face on his sleeve (and he’d liked this hoodie. It had been warm enough when combined with another jacket to ward off the phantom chill that had plagued him ever since the Nogitsune had separated them into two beings with his face).

“I’m okay,” he says, and his dad and Scott are gracious enough not to call him on his lie.

“Stiles, they’re going to need to process you, okay? We don’t have to do your statement until later, but they need to gather the physical evidence for the investigation,” his dad explains, waiting until Stiles nods before he seizes him in another hug. “I’m so damn glad you’re still here.”

Stiles tries to think of something to say, of something reassuring he can tell his dad and Scott.

He fails.

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood. And if McCall’s gun had gone off a second later, I’d be dead and covered in my own blood._

He grips his dad tightly against him and tries desperately not to think. He shivers, something he realizes he’s been doing since he left the vault.

“Crap, I wasn’t even thinking,” his dad says, although he’s not really talking to Stiles. He starts rubbing his back though. “Scott, go see if you can get me a shock blanket from one of the EMTs.” There’s a pause. “Are you okay? Melissa called me right after Rafael. Something about mushrooms and…your…uh… _special immune system_.”

Scott laughs a little bit, and Stiles is so grateful he still gets to hear that sound.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re all fine.”

Maybe if they say it enough, it’ll be true. Stiles hasn’t proven that theory yet, but he’s bound and determined to keep trying until he does.

“I’ll be right back.” Stiles feels Scott grip his shoulder again, a grounding touch, before his hand disappears and Stiles hears him walk away, leaving Stiles and his dad alone down a deserted hallway.

Stiles presses the right side of his face into his dad’s jacket again and just listens to him breathe, the slow, measured breaths he always takes when Stiles is in the midst of, or verging on, a panic attack.

“Stiles?” his dad asks after some of the ambient noise from further down the hall has died down.

“Yeah.” He gives his dad one last squeeze before releasing him and taking a small step back. He wraps his arms around himself, trying not to think of how cold he feels, of the way the blood that soaked through his white T-shirt is tacking the material to his skin.

_The blood was so hot. It had tasted like salt and metal in his mouth and it had been so, so hot._

“What?” he asks, and his dad gives him a strange look.

“I didn’t say anything, Son. We should probably get you to the EMTs. Lydia’s mom said she was worried about you. She said you got sick like the others?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. Miss Martin _had_ been concerned for him, had kept insisting he lie down when all he needed (wanted?) to do was make sure he figured out what was going on. And he did. He had figured it out and then there’d been a gun pointed at him (again, although this time he wasn’t begging to be shot, wasn’t begging for death, but he’d still turned around, still stepped forward to face his death). He’d figured it out and then…

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“I’m tired” is out of his mouth before he can clamp down on it. Stiles winces and looks up at his dad, who looks ten years older than he should, the wrinkles and creases in his face growing only deeper as he looks at Stiles in return.

“We’ll get you processed and checked out, then we’ll head home. Maybe order in a pizza, watch some old ‘Looney Tunes’ cartoons?”

Claudia Stilinski had loved “Looney Tunes” cartoons, and had bought a boxed set of them solely so she could watch them with Stiles and share her excitement about them with him.

“Veggie pizza,” Stiles mumbles. “Maybe Hawaiian, though.”

“Sounds good,” his dad says, his tone even. It’s the same tone he uses on crime victims, and it’s almost too much for Stiles to bear.

“I brought an EMT with me,” Scott announces as he walks back up to them. “They sort of insisted on checking all of us out.”

“I hear you were sick?” Stiles looks up at the EMT, a 30-something blond woman who is wearing a yellow Hazmat suit that has the hood off. She’s fiddling with the medical kit in her gloved hands and Scott is beside her with a couple of blankets stacked up in his arms. He’s wearing one himself, the orange material draped over his shoulders. “I’m Karen. Is it alright if I check you out…?”

“Stiles,” Scott supplies before Stiles can work up the energy to.

Karen looks up at him, and he can tell the moment she sees the blood, because her professional expression slips for a moment before locking back into place.

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

God, he’s tired.

“It’s not mine,” he says before she can ask. “It’s not mine, and I feel better.” His eyes slip closed for a second, and when they open again, his dad is supporting him by his elbow.

“Easy, Stiles,” his dad says as he steps away from him once he’s regained his balance.

“Let me be the judge of your health,” Karen says as Scott steps forward, shaking out the pair of blankets he has so he can wrap them around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles collapses into Scott’s chest, much like he had his dad, throwing his arms around his neck.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Stiles murmurs as Scott settles the blankets into place around his body.

“Me too, buddy,” Scott says, but Stiles doesn’t think he really _gets_ how much he means that.

Karen’s hands are at his neck, feeling around for his pulse and then feeling around for something else. A wound, maybe. He’s starting to feel more and more disjointed, like when he hasn’t taken his Adderall in a very long time.

 _Shock_ , he thinks distantly. Then, _Oh, shock blanket. Duh._

“I think I’d like to sit down,” he says. “Or get a hot shower. Definite ‘yes’ on the shower.” His head falls forward against Scott’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to put his suffering on Scott, not when Scott almost died, not when Scott’s name is on the dead pool, when Scott’s the one being hunted and not him. But…

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

_I almost died again. He was counting down and I was going to die and I didn’t have a Plan B and everyone else was going to die because I couldn’t figure it out fast enough and I was gonna die, he was gonna kill me and that gun was so cold and…_

“Stiles?”

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“Stiles!”

He shudders hard and wipes at his face, wincing when his palm comes away sticky.

“Can I go take a shower?” he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds. “I…I know the guys’ locker room is a crime scene, but maybe we could block off the girls’? Please?”

He’s tired and he just wants to be clean.

_You’ll never be clean. Not with the blood on your hands._

“We’ll get you taken care of,” his dad says.

“Looks like you’ve recovered like the others,” Karen chimes in, removing her hands. “But it’s being advised that we monitor all the patients overnight.”

“No,” Stiles says, and he’s a bit surprised to find his dad and Scott echoing him.

“No,” Stiles says again, and he thinks once more about saying things until they’re true before he adds “I’m fine. I just need a nap and some Tylenol or something.”

Karen hesitates, but a nod from the Sheriff has her nodding and walking away.

“Dad?” Stiles asks, and his voice cracks.

“We’ll get you home, Stiles. I promise. Just a little bit longer.”

“It’ll be okay,” Scott says.

Stiles wishes he could believe him, but he’s always been the realist of the two of them and…

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

“Home sounds good,” he says instead, and starts moving his shaky legs forward toward where all the people are. He still has things to figure out: What happened to Derek that made him start to lose his werewolf strength, how to get Peter away from Malia before he inevitably worms his way inside her head and _twists_ , who the Benefactor is, how to get rid of Kate Argent once and for all, how to help Lydia control her banshee powers and how to protect his friends, his _pack._ “Home sounds _really_ good.”

_I’m covered in a dead man’s blood._

_But I’m not the dead man today._

 


End file.
